


Mirror, Mirror

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Apocalyptic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-29
Updated: 2008-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:53:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-apocalyptic future AU set after S2; "Does it matter who is sorry and who is not when humanity itself hangs by a thread?" The virus is loose, the 0.07 are the survivors, not the death toll. Immunity is random and not genetic. Mohinder spends all of his time trying to fix what he set so horribly wrong, and Sylar is still there, always there, unwilling to leave him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror, Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Runner Up Best Angst @ the Heroes Slash Awards: Winter 2009

‘Come to bed,’ Sylar whispers in his ear, chasing his words with a tender kiss. His breath is warm and fresh against Mohinder’s neck and his lips are soft and damp. He smells clean, and Mohinder imagines that his skin still carries a lingering hint of soap. It is so tempting to just turn his head and test that theory with a flick of his tongue. It is so tempting to give in to the rumble in his voice and the promise in his words, but he can’t, not yet, there is work to be done.

  


   


He shakes his head, gently pushing Sylar away while stroking his arm to soften the rejection. ‘In a bit,’ he promises, gesturing to his open laptop. Sylar’s fingers card through his hair, settling at the base of his skull and softly massaging the nape of his neck. Biting his lip, Mohinder lets his eyes fall shut. Just five minutes, he tells himself. Five minutes to enjoy the other man’s touch and to forget that the fate of the world rests on his shoulders. His fingers fall from Sylar’s arm as he sighs, muscles relaxing. Sylar catches them in his own and, as Mohinder’s eyes flutter open, he brings them to his lips for a quick, chaste kiss.

  
  


His thumb brushes over Mohinder’s knuckles. Sylar squeezes his hand lightly, before guiding it between his legs, pressing Mohinder’s open palm to his erection. Even through the thick fabric of his sweatpants, Mohinder’s palm begins to prickle and sweat, feeling the heat of Sylar’s length as clearly as if they were skin to skin. ‘So hard,’ he mutters, mostly to himself, his breath hitching hoarsely in his throat. After all these years the strength of Sylar’s desire for him still catches him off guard. It is so simple and yet so intense, the one unwavering constant in a world that has otherwise been mutilated and ripped apart.

  
  


He pulls his hand away, a forced smile on his face. It is not yet time to forget where they are and the things that have happened. He hasn’t earned that privilege yet tonight. He turns back to the computer, pressing Sylar’s hip and nudging him in the direction of the bedroom. Soon, perhaps, he will have worked hard enough to deserve a brief respite. From the corner of his eye he can see Sylar hover, watching him with his head cocked to the side. His lips part but in the end he says nothing. There is nothing to say that hasn’t already been said.

  
  


‘Don’t be too long or I’ll start without you.’

  
  


‘So start, if you like, just don’t finish until I join you.’

  
  


Sylar’s footsteps falter for only a second, but it is enough to alert Mohinder to his own words. They seem to have tripped from his tongue without conscious thought. Is this what he has been reduced to, he thinks, flirting with his father’s killer? To pleasure each other was one thing – desperation, despair, the fear of death and the need to prove themselves alive: Mohinder has used them all as reason and excuse. But he has always evaded Sylar’s sexual banter, deflecting his love of innuendo and refusing to engage him. They don’t deserve the fantasy that this is something real. It is twisted and depraved. The thought that this perverse alliance that they have melded in the ashes of New York City is the most that life can now offer is what keeps Mohinder working, day in and day out, failure after devastating failure.

  
  


He refuses to accept. He refuses to give in. He has resisted Sylar’s every effort to convince him that there is nothing more that he can do. It has been months, he suddenly realises, since they have last had that argument. Mohinder never questions why Sylar doesn’t simply leave if New York holds nothing for him, travel to the coast like he wants them to do and spend the rest of his days searching for the peace of mind he cannot seem to find here, faced with the consequences of their actions.

  
  


An electronic beep rouses him from his thoughts. The algorithm has failed. Months of work proved useless in a moment. Mohinder is no closer to locating the key that has kept them alive while all around them, normal and evolved, people have fallen to the viruses his research has helped to create. The bitter disappointment should be routine by now but with every fresh hope dashed the despair rips through him anew. In the morning he will find a way to contact Bennet and pass on the results. Cold and stoic, the news will have no effect on him. He will simply continue to protect those rare few, who like themselves, have inexplicably managed to survive. A vaccine will not bring back those they have lost – their friends and their family. His indestructible daughter whose blood they had all relied on as a failsafe against this future had been among the first to succumb.

  
  


But Mohinder isn’t working for them anymore. Not for the memory of Molly or Matt, not for the ghost of his father or the spirit of his mother. He doesn’t do it for himself, or Bennet or Sylar. It isn’t even for the survivors who have fled New York for the open farmlands of the country, leaving him to his research in a city of two and looking to him for salvation from this unending nightmare. He works for those who have not yet been born and for a future he knows he will never live to see. Immunity is not genetic. For every three children born in the colonies, only one survives. Mohinder refuses to die with their blood on his hands.

  
  


He resists the urge to smash his coffee cup against the wall and the desire to scream in pure frustration. With quivering hands, he snaps the laptop shut and walks away from the desk before he gives in to the urge to destroy. Mohinder paces in the kitchen, willing away the waves of helplessness, his mind scrambling for a new angle or a new avenue of research. There has to be something he has missed. There is always something he has missed. His knuckles are white as he grips the countertop. He drops his head to the cool marble. Hysterical laughter bubbles in his throat as he thinks of the bruise that will appear, purple and ludicrous, on his forehead.

  
  


Then, Sylar is there. His arms snake around Mohinder’s torso and pull him up. He puts up no resistance, leaning back against the other man’s chest. There is no need to speak. With his stolen hearing, Sylar has heard the bitter setback and all of Mohinder’s impotent frustration. When Sylar guides him to the bedroom, his hands on his hips, pushing with his body and his mind, Mohinder thinks that he doesn’t deserve to take this tonight. He can’t explain when being with Sylar became a reward, an indulgence to be earned instead of a ruthless punishment and a twisted, sadistic comeuppance for his part in what the world has become. When had the hurried snatches of physical pleasure, moments of weakness that left him disgusted and with his resolve renewed, transform into this awful parody of love?

  
  


Sylar isn’t sorry for his past. In the years that they have spent together, he has not expressed a single regret or the slightest hint of remorse. If they were granted the chance to redo their lives, he would kill again, Mohinder knows. It sickens Mohinder to realise that he is no better. Without the knowledge that this is what lay before him, there is not one decision he can honestly say that he would change. Long ago he came to understand that intentions are meaningless. By body count, by devastation, by the sheer grief that he has caused, Mohinder is undeniably a greater monster than Sylar could ever be. For every life Sylar has taken, Mohinder has decimated countries. Does it matter who is _sorry_ and who is not when humanity itself hangs by a thread?

  
  


They lie on the bed, limbs entangled. Sylar’s lips and teeth graze his skin. Every kiss, each nip and lick seem to brand Mohinder’s crimes on his flesh. Their hips grind together. Sylar is hard again, stiff and pulsing against his stomach. As his thigh glides between Mohinder’s knees he knows, to his shame, that in no time at all he will be in much the same condition. He fists his hand in Sylar’s hair, biting at his mouth and flipping them over. The fault is his, not Sylar’s and yet Sylar stays, offering him comfort he hasn’t earned. Mohinder straddles his hips and presses their mouths together in a deep and desperate kiss. He swallows Sylar’s broken moan. As they break apart to breathe, hands slipping beneath Mohinder’s shirt, he whispers Mohinder’s name.

  
  


‘Don’t.’

  
  


He is Prometheus. He has played God and with every failure it is his soul that is mercilessly ripped from his body. And with each new theory, and every glimmer of false hope, it is his soul that grows back just to be torn from him again. He is Icarus. He has aimed too high and fallen hard, plunging deep into a sea of despair. He is Sisyphus, cut down by his own hubris. Mohinder is trapped in pursuit of a goal that all signs suggest is unachievable. But he cannot give up and he cannot give in.

  
  


Death is too good for him. His punishment is a living, mortal hell, watching helpless as those he loved were killed by his own arrogance. He is worse, much worse, than man who writhes beneath him. He is worth less than the man who killed his father. He is less deserving of mercy than the one he had once sought to destroy, the one he had fingered as humanity’s parasite. And yet, still Sylar reaches for him with body and mind. And perhaps that too is his hell: to give comfort to and take it from the one person he should most revile.

  
  


Their clothes have been discarded and sweat pools between them. Their kisses are heavy with words they will never say, accusations they will never hurl and prayers they will never plead. They are pressed together. They claw at each other’s arms, dragging nails over chests and scraping at hips. Mohinder bites at Sylar’s neck. His tongue lies flat against the throbbing vein, needing so desperately to feel its insistent pulse. He is alive. They are alive. There is no justice. It isn’t right and it isn’t fair, but it is the only reality left to them and so they cling to each other. They rock their hips, groaning to reaffirm their vitality.

  
  


Sylar clutches at his ass, holding him closer. They pant into each other’s mouths, brows furrowed in ecstatic concentration. Then Sylar is cradling his chin, forcing his head up and staring deep into his eyes. His other hand covers Mohinder’s where it rests on his chest. Their fingers entwine and with that simple, tender touch, Mohinder comes.

  
  


The world seems to grow still. All that can be heard is the heavy pant of their breath and the thrum of their blood. Sylar holds him steady, stroking his jaw as the pleasure pulses through his body. Then he sags, falling down against the other man’s chest and pressing his face to the crook of his neck. Sylar’s arms encircle him. ‘It didn’t work,’ he whispers, confident that Sylar can hear him. ‘The vaccine didn’t work.’

  
  


‘I know.’ Sylar’s fingers rake through his hair. ‘I know,’ he repeats, for once sounding as powerless as Mohinder feels.

  
  


‘I can’t fix this, Sylar.’ He doesn’t know why the confession has suddenly spilled from the darkest corners of his mind. ‘This is all my fault and I can’t… I don’t know how to make it better.’

  
  


‘You’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out.’ Sylar’s stubble grazes his skin as he whispers the words in his ear. They should sound trite and empty, meaningless platitudes to bolster his confidence, but when Sylar speaks them it is with an earnestness Mohinder has never heard. His breath is hot, his tone fervent and Mohinder knows that he truly believes what he is saying. With a squeeze of his hand, Sylar promises so much and Mohinder, for a moment, lets himself be comforted.

  
  


Bracing himself with one hand beside Sylar’s head, he drags himself up. He brushes his eyes with the back of his hand, Sylar tactfully glancing to the side as he wipes away the tears of frustration that had threatened to overwhelm him. ‘Sorry,’ he mutters, sheepishly gesturing to the semen splattered on Sylar’s belly.

  
  


‘It’s ok--’ The words catch as Mohinder drags his hand through the mess, curling his wet fingers around Sylar’s cock. ‘It’s ok,’ he whimpers, again and again, with every pull and tug of Mohinder’s hand. ‘I love you,’ Sylar gasps, as he always does, when he comes.

  
  


‘I know.’ Mohinder smiles down at him. His face is slack and his eyes bleary. He pulls Mohinder down for a sloppy kiss, tugging at his lips until Mohinder draws back, smoothing his hair and pressing him to the pillows. ‘Sleep,’ he orders. Sylar frowns but doesn’t protest, long ago given up trying to persuade Mohinder to sleep beside him.

  
  


He washes his hands and his face, redresses himself and flicks the laptop open once more. He wonders if Sylar will ever tire of confessing his feelings. He never pushes or presses for anything more than an acknowledgement that Mohinder has heard him. Deep down Sylar must know that Mohinder could never return the sentiment. This wasn’t love and it never would be. It was need and desperation, helplessness and despair. Perhaps this is the closest Sylar could ever come to understanding what love was and Mohinder thinks that maybe that is why he can never bring himself to snap that the words aren’t true and never will be.

  
  


He stares at the data again, scrolling through the numbers, searching for a pattern that must be there. He looks up as Sylar enters the room. He pulls up a chair beside him and angles the screen so that they can both see. They stare in silence, searching and analysing. He slips his hand onto Mohinder’s shoulder, squeezing comfortingly. ‘I love you,’ he repeats.

  
  


‘I know.’

  
  


Sylar nods seemingly satisfied this time. Sylar loves him and yet Mohinder would sacrifice him without a second’s hesitation. He would torture, abuse and defile him if it would afford him even an outside chance of restoring what he has destroyed. There would be no regret or remorse in throwing him away if only that trade could be made. But this is hell and there are no Gods. He cannot offer up Sylar and his attachment as a penance and atonement. There are no bargains that can be made and no intercession to be prayed for.

  
  


Again and again Mohinder seeks Sylar out, reaching for him in desperation but his love leaves him cold. It is nothing but a stark reminder of what he has lost and how he is lacking. He is Prometheus. He is Icarus. He is Sisyphus. Sylar is his punishment and all he deserves. [](http://www.statcounter.com/)

  


  



End file.
